


Only a Man

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-29
Updated: 2007-09-29
Packaged: 2019-03-12 14:46:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13549560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: AU: What if there had been no book launch meeting between Mark and Bridget, or no 'American stick insect'-related breakup with Daniel? And, um, quite a lot of wine?





	Only a Man

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks once more to [](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/profile)[**just_dreamsome**](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/). She comes up with the best plotbunnies.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, much to my lament. Scenes like this, which unfortunately only exist in my head, and the words describing them, however, are.

So much for relaxing.

He had only intended on stopping in for a quick dinner and drink after a particularly difficult day. Initially, it was the sound of raised voices in the corner of the bar that had caught his attention. It was a couple, unfortunately brightly lit by a misaligned track light, and while he couldn't quite make out the female of the couple (her back was to him), the male was all too familiar.

Her voice in particular was the one that rose above the din of the crowd, and while he couldn't quite discern the entire meaning, it was clear that she was angry with him. He knew that the male's voice was quieter because he was apologising and making excuses, supported by the simpering expression on his face. She raised her wineglass to take a sip as he spoke, and after she swallowed—probably fortified by the alcohol she was taking in—she began again animatedly, judging from the way her head bobbed up and down and the way her hands gesticulated wildly.

It became almost a sport, watching them: her cursing him out and him just sitting there taking it. As the well-obscured observer at his table some distance away from them, he wondered idly what the fight was about, though he had his guesses it had to do with another woman and infidelity.

Then came the denouement. Lightning fast she raised her hand and slapped him hard. Even from his remote table he could clearly hear the words "pathetic" and "lying bastard" and even "never want to see your sorry arse again". They stared at each in silence or a few beats before the rejected man, looking defeated, stood and left. It was probably wrong to revel in his defeated state, but the man watching this scene did so all the same.

As for the woman, he watched her head and shoulders sink to the table for a moment or two before she raised her wine bottle, topped off her glass again and drained it.

He turned his attention once more to his plate of dinner, and proceeded to bring another forkful to his mouth. When he looked up again after a few more bites, she was at it again, filling the glass, then drinking it all down. She rested her forehead in her hand, and he could see her shoulders rocking slightly, as if she were crying. He commiserated completely.

He was finishing up the bottom of his own glass of wine to wash down the last of his dinner when he saw her again raising the bottle up, this time to such an angle that he knew she must be draining the last of it. She set the bottle down with a resounding thud, then raised her glass in an imaginary toast, and knocked the whole thing back in a single motion.

He was waiting for the server to return with his card and ticket to sign when he saw another server bringing a rather elaborate-looking mixed drink to the woman's table. The server said something quietly to her—he guessed it was to let her know someone was buying her this drink—and she straightened up, turning in her chair towards the bar and in his own direction.

To his shock he realised he knew her too. He had only met her briefly at the New Year, when he had been in a most surly mood. At the time, despite her horrific clothes, cigarette and sloshing drink, he had thought her a not unattractive-looking woman, but maternal matchmaking and other circumstances had resulted in him brushing her aside in a very unkind manner. How different she looked now, wearing a pale knit top, dark-coloured skirt, dark stockings and low heels, her hair framing her face. She offered a wan smile in what he thought at first was meant for him, but when she raised the drink and drank it too, he realised it was intended for the person who'd bought that drink for her.

Bridget. He remembered her name was Bridget.

He lowered his head, saw that the waitress had brought his slip unnoticed, so he signed it and tucked his card back into his wallet. He felt someone pass by him and when he looked up he saw another man approaching Bridget. He placed his left hand in the center of her chair and leaned down over her and he knew two things instantly: this was the man who had bought her the drink, and he was very obviously hitting on her when she was very obviously under the influence of alcohol.

He knew what she had just endured, knew how suggestible she might be in her state. He had to intervene.

He stood, slipped his suit jacket back on, and approached her table. He listened to this man lay the worst pick up lines he'd ever heard on her. She, for the most part, looked as drunk as she was but was clearly flattered by the attention.

"Excuse me," he said. They both turned to him, Bridget in his shadow from the poorly aimed light. He kept his own attention focused on the man, the predator, he towered over.

"Yeah?"

"I think you ought to leave the lady alone."

"Oh, fancy a crack at her yourself?" asked the man, an irritating smirk on his face reminiscent of Bridget's most recent ex.

"No," he returned automatically, drawing himself up even more imposingly. "I don't take advantage of distressed, intoxicated girls in bars who clearly aren't thinking straight." He saw, out of the corner of his eye, that her mouth dropped open.

"Mr High-and-Mighty, right? And who are you exactly to tell me what to do?"

"She's an old friend of mine," he said (it wasn't exactly a lie, as they had played together as children), "and I'm a lawyer who knows harassment law quite well."

He pursed his lips for a moment before turning to Bridget and saying, "Well, love, glad you enjoyed your drink." The predator then threw a very angry look in his direction before returning to the bar.

"And just who do you think you are?" slurred Bridget, trying to get to her feet but failing spectacularly.

He grabbed her arm, helping her to stand. "Come on, Bridget. I'm taking you home."

"Ooooh, thought you didn't want to take a crack at an intoxita—intossict— _pissed_ _little girl_ ," she said petulantly, trying to wrest her arm away and nearly toppling to the floor as a result. "Who the fuck are you anyway and how do you know my name? I don't even know you—you could be some sort of mad rapist or something."

He could not help but smile—even blurry-eyed and stone cold drunk, there was an honest, almost endearing quality about her. "We met at your mother's Turkey Curry Buffet," he said quietly, as other patrons had begun to look at them. She stared blankly. "I was wearing a reindeer jumper," he added to spur her memory.

She burst out laughing and almost fell to the floor. "Oh, Christ on a crutch. _Mark Bloody Darcy_."

With a light laugh, he said, "Yes."

"And what makes you think I'd go home with you?" she asked, though at this point she was grasping his forearm with both hands. "The night is young and there's still more wine in the world, and you're a rude bugger who doesn't even like me, even if you do look really, _really_ scrummy tonight."

He had accused her once of verbal incontinence, but he had no idea that her internal editor would have eroded _that_ much under the influence of so much alcohol. "Not to my home, to yours."

"Oh."

He thought for a moment she looked disappointed. Surely that was just his imagination. He added, "And I don't dislike you. We just got off to a bad start. Do you have a coat?"

"No."

"Handbag?"

"No."

"A ticket to pay?"

"He paid already."

"Come on then."

Unsteady on her feet, she tilted into him, and he caught her around the waist and kept his arm around her to steady her gait as they began to walk to the exit.

The waiter who'd brought her the drink a short while ago approached them. "Ma'am? Is this man bothering you?"

"Yes," she said decisively, even as she leaned heavily into him, slipped her own arm around his waist under his suit jacket, and squeezed his hip. "He wants to put me back in my boring old flat while I'd much rather stay here and keep at your fantastic wine."

He met eyes with the waiter. "I think she's had enough of your fantastic wine," he said coolly, even as her thumb looped around the waist of his trousers.

The waiter's face instantly became more sympathetic.

Mark continued with a slight fib. "We're old friends since childhood, saw her argue earlier with her boyfriend… been keeping an eye on her."

"He is no longer my boyfriend," she slurred indignantly. "Rat bastard."

The waiter nodded. "Have a good night, sir."

His car was just down the street, so it was not a long walk with her cradled in his arm, but it was made more difficult due to her wobbly step and his being distracted by both her grip on his waist and the smell of her hair, perfume, or some other vanilla-spice scent coming off of her. 

"Here we are." He pushed her gently up and away from him.

"Oooh, nice Beamer." She swayed in place while he unlocked then opened the passenger side door for her. "Very spacious inside—very handy. Hmmm."

He held her forearm with one hand and placed the other on the top of her head to help her avoid hitting it on the roof of the car, then locked and shut the door. He went around and took his seat, then turned to her. He realised he should have put the safety belt on her while he was on the other side. "Seatbelt on, come on."

She giggled and tossed her head back against the headrest, closing her eyes. "I'll sleep right here, I think," she said, her throat moving up and down as she spoke, then swallowed. "Nice."

"Seatbelt," he said again.

She opened her eyes and turned her gaze to him, still distinctly cloudy-eyed. "Is too hard. You do it."

He sighed. The vehicle was wide enough and the buckle such a distance away that he had to raise up out of his seat and lean over her in order to reach it. That he had to press against her was unavoidable; he practically had his ear in her face. "A bit forward of you, Mr Reindeer Jumper," she said with a laugh, her breath skating across his cheek, as his fingers finally found purchase on the metal buckle.

"Sorry." He retreated enough to click the buckle into place, then raised his eyes to her. "You could have done this yourself."

She surprised him by reaching forward and kissing him on the nose. "Oh, but that was much more fun." She grinned, her eyes sparkling but still unfocused. "You need to loosen up, Mark Darcy."

With the way she was looking at him it was tempting to repay her in kind, but he sat back, reminding himself that despite her playfulness and the fact that she'd said he looked 'scrummy', she was pissed out of her mind. "I think we're ready to go. Where do you live?"

"Up there, to the left."

"What's your address?" All he knew was that she lived, according to his mother, 'just 'round the corner' from him, and they were nowhere near where he lived.

"I'll show you—just drive."

Even though this had all the makings of a very bad idea, he turned the key in the ignition and put the car into gear. He proceeded forward, and at the first major intersection she said, "Okay, turn here!"

He did.

They drove a little further up and a few blocks later, she said, "Left here."

He indicated and turned.

After about three blocks, she advised him to turn left again, and it occurred to him they were going in a big circle and nowhere near where he (and probably she) lived. He sighed and turned right, instead.

"Hey, I said 'left'."

"Bridget, I don't think you know where you are. I'm just going to take you to my house and in the morning after you've sobered up I'll drop you at your flat."

"Know 'zactly where I am," she said with a pout. "Jerk, probably gay," she mumbled before passing out altogether.

He shook his head and smirked with amusement, despite the situation.

………

Mark pulled into the drive at his home, pausing to consider how he was going to get her into the house and up to the guest room. He came to a rapid and unavoidable conclusion: he was going to have to carry her.

He unfastened her seatbelt, then went around to open the passenger door. He considered for a moment the difficulty of opening the front door with her in his arms, so he went to the front door, unlocked and opened it, then went back to her. Gently he slipped left arm under her knees and his right around her back, allowing her left arm to swing behind him. Slowly he raised her up out of the car. Her head lolled to the side and up against his shoulder, and once more he was taken with the vanilla-spice scent emanating from her. He thought the spice might be amber, or possibly cinnamon—

He shook his head to bring his focus back to the present. He kicked the car door shut behind him then as gently as he could manage he headed up the stairs and through the front door, also kicking back to close the door. He looked to the stairs to the upper floor, which suddenly looked impossibly high. Slowly he began to scale them.

"Mmm." She moved her head slightly, groaning softly. He felt her arms move, saw the right one come up to her head, felt her left one brush past his rear to touch his back. Her eyes opened slowly; she looked blearily to him then around herself, instantly recognising she was not in her own flat. "Where are we going? Your room?" she asked impishly, raking her fingers down the valley of his spine at the same time she brought the fingers of her right hand to trace along his neck to the hollow of his throat.

Through sheer will alone he got to the top. "I have a room you can use tonight."

She didn't reply. She simply wrapped her right hand around the back of his neck, weaving her fingers through the hair at the nape; she arched up in his arms and pulled him to her for a kiss.

The first thought that went through his mind was that allowing her to kiss him was sheer madness, and he tried with every ounce of his being to pull away from her. She was intoxicated, she had no self control, she had just dumped her unfaithful boyfriend—but she also had a physical strength he never would have expected, and she was an expert at what she was doing, regardless of her lack of sobriety.

He should have just dropped his arms, lowered her to the ground, pushed her into the guest room and onto the bed, closed the door as he left, and stalked off to his own room for the coldest shower he could stand. Rationally, even as he began to kiss her in return, he knew this. He had, however, never claimed to be anything but a human male with all the accompanying weaknesses, and thus his feet moved of their own volition towards the master bedroom.

He set her down on the bed and before he knew it his jacket was pushed off of his shoulders and his shirt was being pulled out of his trousers, buttons popping off and flying in all directions as she pulled the halves apart. She fell back and pulled him with her, laughing unexpectedly as she ran her fingers over the front of his trousers and discovered the firmness there. "God, Reindeer Jumper. Thought you weren't interested." She then pressed her palm into him and kissed him again. He felt lightheaded. "Hope like hell you have a thingie."

He hoped he did, too.

He pushed himself away from her and back onto his knees, reaching into his nightstand, tossing aside a leather-bound book, a couple of pens and some antacids to find a pristine box of condoms. He pulled the box open, fumbling for the wrapped discs when he felt two hands on his shoulders and a light giggle in his ear. "Hur _rah_!" she said before she started gently nibbling on his earlobe.

Never had he been so acutely reminded that he was only a man.

He sat up onto his knees, sending the condoms cascading off to his side, then turned and fiercely claimed her mouth again. She put her arms around his neck and pulled herself up against him. Heaving with breath, he broke from her kiss as she found the waistband of his trousers. With surprising dexterity she undid the belt, the button and the zip; she pushed his trousers and his boxers down, then drew her fingers across his bare hips and over the tops of his legs. She giggled again as she reached for then fumbled with opening the condom packet, but even her drunkenness didn't prevent her from taking him firmly in hand and rolling it on without effort. She reached around and took hold of him around the waist as she kissed him again, crawling forward to sit on his bent knees, then combed her fingers into his hair.

He ran his hands up the back of her legs and under her skirt to find her stockings were only thigh high, which he found irresistibly hot. He found her underpants—tiny, light and lacy—then returned his hands to her thighs, over the soft curve of her rear, up over her hips then daring to push the crotch of her panties aside to curl his fingers between her legs.

She threw her head back, closed her eyes and moaned, bucking her hips forward. "Oh fuck," she breathed, biting her lower lip as he slid them back and forth over her. "More than that," she managed, bucking forward again.

That was his breaking point. He didn't quite remember how he'd gone from kneeling with her on his lap to lying with her under his weight, but there she was beneath him, arching herself up into him. He pulled her knit top up to her shoulders and unclasped the front of the bra; he bent to kiss the lovely pale spot just between her breasts before running his hands over them, incredibly soft and definitely of nature's design. He then leaned over her once more. With his fingers guiding the way he drove himself into her; he heard her sharp intake of breath as he did so, felt her nails dig into his bare buttocks.

The combination of pleasure and pain was intense, and a throaty moan escaped him. As he thrust forward, she pushed up into him; the guttural sounds she made were amazingly erotic and only further served to fuel his passion. His arms, which were still covered by the fine cotton of his dress shirt, slid a bit as they braced him up on either side of her, and his feet, which were still clad in the most expensive shoes he owned, were having some difficulty finding purchase on the sleek linen sheets. It didn't matter. He had all the friction and power he needed (not to mention her vocal encouragement) to send him into dizzying ecstasy, building and building until at last his legs went as taut as wire; as she raked his hips with her nails again, he lunged forward one final time, shaking and trembling as he came with tremendous strength. He dared not even breathe. He didn't think he could if he tried.

The world came into focus again as he regained his breath, lying slightly off to the side, his cheek resting on her pushed-up sweater, his hand on her upper arm. He swallowed, brushing his fingers over her soft skin. She sighed what sounded like the most satisfied, protracted sigh he'd ever heard in his life, but then she started snickering and didn't stop, such that he began to feel a little paranoid. He wasn't the most experienced of men when it came to women, and though he liked to think he was adequately good at pleasing them, he realised she hadn't had her own release, not to mention he'd never had any other woman actually laugh at him before. He raised his head to look to her and she fixed his gaze with her own.

"Oh, it's never going to work like this," she said matter-of-factly, then erupted into giggles again. He felt somewhat crushed. However, she then swept the sides of her feet against his thighs (she still had her one of her own shoes on, he realised), squeezed her legs about him. "Turn over."

"What?"

"Turn over so I'm on top. That'll do it," she said, lunging her head up to kiss him again, then stopped once more. "Wait. Help me out of this stupid shirt first. It's too warm to have so much stuff on."

That did not sound anything like the rebuff he was poised to hear.

He pushed himself up and away from her, taking off his ruined shirt as he stood on uncertain legs. He took a moment to discard the condom then tore off his shoes and socks, allowed his trousers and boxers to fall to the floor. He kneeled on the bed again and pulled her up by the wrists to sit. Her head lolled back for a moment and he felt a twinge of guilt, but then she looked at him in a most calculating fashion with a wicked grin, and he wondered if she was actually as far gone as he had originally suspected.

He pulled the knit top up over her head, slipped the bra down off of her shoulders, and she dropped back to the bed again. He reached down and slipped off her remaining shoe when he heard her make a clucking sound with her tongue.

"That's no way to undress a girl," she said peevishly, bringing her fingers to her own waistband, pushing down to reveal her hipbone and the very thin strap of her pants.

He situated himself beside her, leaned forward, and took hold of the elastic waist of her skirt. She raised her hips to allow the skirt to be pulled down and off, leaving only the thigh-high stockings and lacy black pants covering her curvy body. Unbidden, his passion built all over again.

He hooked his fingers over the top edge of the hosiery, pulled it down to her toes, then did the same for the other side. She shivered as he brushed the pads of his fingers over her thighs, though her face was still flushed quite pink from her earlier exertion. His thumbs caught the straps of her pants and, with a slight tilt up of her hips, he pulled those from her as well.

She blew a wisp of hair from her face as her gaze darted to his pelvis. "Ooh, that's better." He wasn't sure exactly what she was referring to but as her eyes darkened with intent, he decided he didn't care. She sat up with a speed he wouldn't have expected of her considering her inebriation and launched herself up, pushing him back onto the bed and straddling his legs. She tilted to the side to palm another condom, her hair momentarily obscuring her face as she did so. She giggled huskily as she ripped the packet open and drew it out; he decided he loved the sound of her laugh.

"There," she said definitively after a few moments. "Hm. Let's have another go—and now it's my turn."

He could hardly debate the point as she leaned over him and covered his mouth with her own, voracious and relentless; her nails pricked at the skin of his shoulders as she grasped them. She ran her hand down over his chest, and, wasting little time, reached down for him, lifted herself up and descended onto him, emitting a very satisfied groan as she began moving back and forth. He closed his eyes, involuntarily bucking up to match her rhythm, wondering how he would ever be able to bear the sensation and still retain any reason or sensibility. She reached down and clasped his wrists, drawing them up next to his head, where she weaved her fingers through his and supported herself on them.

Her eyes were closed again, and there was a look of intense concentration upon her face, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Her face changed subtly and she began to cry out in monosyllables as her movements became more impassioned. He wanted to push himself up to meet her, to place his lips up on her throat, to take her earlobe between his teeth, but she held him down into place as she came ever closer to pinnacle. At last she removed her hands from his own and arched back to sit fully upright, raising her chin up. He might have tried to pull himself up to her if not for being far too overwhelmed by the pinpricks of light behind his eyes as he came again, urged on by the heady feel of her contracting around him.

She moaned one last time—half-visceral, half-giddy, but wholly satisfied—before leaning back down towards him. Her equilibrium was off, though, and when she canted forward she listed to the side, continuing right off the bed and taking him with her.

He'd had no idea they were so close to the edge. He landed on her in a pile of arms and legs, quickly rolling so that he was beneath her; the bedding that came down with them and the carpeted floor helped to soften the fall. Judging by her raucous laughter he guessed she was not seriously injured. When her chuckling settled down, she drew her arms about his neck, then placed open mouthed kisses on his throat.

"Probably'll have a bruise on my bottom," she whispered, "and be spoilt for all other men for the rest of my life. Hmmmm." She pressed her forehead to his cheek, exhaling hot breath over his neck before she returned her attention to kissing then grazing her teeth on the skin there. His eyes drifted closed, and the tiniest of voices in the back of his head tried to argue that he ought to stop altogether, but he was too overcome by how magnificent it felt. He wondered if she was always quite so revved up or so forthright with her opinions (and praise) in intimate situations, or if that was merely due to her lowered inhibitions.

However, it was not willpower that saved him from himself; despite the cushioning carpet, the floor was far too uncomfortable to continue lying on, never mind more vigourous activity. As she continued her ministrations, he placed one hand at the base of her head and his other arm around her waist, then slowly he tried to roll to the side, hoping to get to his feet and help her up.

She stopped momentarily to say, "What're you doing?"

"Trying to get up. Back to the bed. It's too hard on the floor."

"Mmm." She reared her head back, looked him in the eye. "I could say something _very_ naughty there." She grinned once more, beautiful and devilish.

"Come on. Can you stand?"

She covered her mouth and giggled. "Not sure, not after that."

It was difficult to be impatient when she kept burbling compliments, and nigh on impossible to push himself up away from her, but he willed himself to do it and helped her up off of the floor. She flopped back down on the bed and rolled onto her stomach, sighing again. He discarded the second sheath then recovered the duvet to the bed before sitting beside her, regarding her for a moment as she was highlighted by the silvery moonlight that came trickling in through the window. She was truly lovely; she was a little heavier than was the current fashionable standard of beauty, but he had never been one to abide that standard. She had genuine curves and soft skin, and he knew he had to stop and blink because taking her in like this was reminding him that he shouldn't have done any of this in the first place…

She made a pained little sound, reached back and rubbed her backside. "Ow."

He wondered if she was maybe more injured by the fall than he assumed. "Are you all right?"

"This bed's pretty high up," she said into the sheets, then turned her head to smile at him. "But nothing you couldn't kiss and make better."

He should have fought the impulse to get close to her, to not make things any worse in his own mind, but he was concerned she might be hurt. This was his justification. He ran his fingers over the tender area; it was smooth and undamaged to the best of his reckoning, which relieved him. The moment he bent over her to examine the skin of her rear, he found himself taking hold of her hips with his hands and touching gentle lips to the exact spot she'd rubbed, once, twice, then rested his cheek there. He closed his eyes, feeling both the heat of her body suffusing into him and his fatigue from their romp most acutely. He did not know what power it was she had over him, but he had to summon the strength to force himself away as he should have from the start. He felt guilty and ashamed of himself for taking advantage of a woman who was not in control of her faculties, and if she hated him the next day, never spoke to him again, he would be deeply saddened (she was quite growing on him) but not surprised. His mind then turned to thoughts of even worse scenarios than that, of her not remembering her consent, of being accused of—

"Ohhhh," she said softly, her whole body sighing, and she turned her head to fix him with a look he might have defined as surprise under ordinary circumstances. "That was nice. You're nice. You _kiss_ really nice." His hands were still upon her hips, and he felt movement under the arm he'd draped across her legs; they were parting. "You have soft hands," she murmured. "They're nice too."

There was something about the tone of her voice combined with the drifting scent of that perfume of hers that hooked him right through the solar plexus. He raised himself up on one elbow, ran the fingers of his free hand up over her ribs. She veritably purred. Lightly they came back down over the curve of her buttocks, then down, over and around to her inner thigh, causing her to bow her back, raise her hips up and make a soft sound.

He felt that hook tug him forward, pushed his fingers deeper between her legs, heard her gasp. He crawled forward and nudged her knees farther apart with his own, placing his lips on the side of her neck. And just like that he was lost once more.

………

He awakened with a start. The room was suffused with bright sunshine and he blinked against the morning light, lifting his head. His stomach dropped when he saw the tousled blonde mess of hair on the pillow next to him—partly because he hadn't quite thought how he was going to handle the morning after, but mostly because he was afraid of how she'd take this all once sober.

After the best night of sex in his entire life, he prayed she wouldn't take it badly.

She was resting on her stomach, facing away from him, and he realised he was very close to her, had his hand resting on her bare backside. He dared not move lest he wake her, which nixed any thoughts of bringing her some water or a cup of coffee to combat the hangover she was sure to have.

A slight, pained groaning sound came from her. She pressed her face deeper into the pillow, putting a hand to her head. "God," she muttered, her voice muffled by the down, drawing the vowel sound out. "I am _never_ going to drink ag—" At that moment she stiffened as she clearly became aware of his proximity, of his hand on her. She slowly turned her head to the left to see who was beside her, as if she were terrified to see who she'd landed in bed with. He resisted the urge to put off dealing with it by feigning sleep and met her eyes with what he hoped was a neutral expression. "Um. Hi," she offered feebly.

"Hello," he said quietly in return, keeping his tone even. She didn't recoil from him, didn't look surprised to see she'd spent the night with a man who, up until the night before, was best known to her for wearing a tacky jumper; he was thankful for that. At the very least it probably meant no police intervention or jail time in his future. Miraculous considering his exceedingly ungentlemanlike behaviour.

He didn't pull away from her, either. He told himself it was so that he didn't seem repulsed by her, but the truth of it was, he didn't want to.

She opened her mouth as if to speak again, but then closed it, looking thoughtful for a moment before blurting, "I don't usually do this sort of thing, you know. Well, the drinking, yes, _obviously_ —but not the—" She stopped suddenly, flushing pink, surprising considering the confetti of condom wrapper pieces that surely littered the periphery of his bed. 

"I'm sure you don't," he offered sympathetically.

"I'm sorry. I'm sure you think even less of me than you did at New Year's."

He didn't want her to apologise or to feel guilty, not even for a second. "Well, considering where we are, what we've done, how little we're wearing, and where my hand is resting, I should think you'd guess _that_ to be patently untrue."

Her mouth betrayed a small smile.

"But I'm the one who should be apologising," he continued in a more serious tone, "for a multitude of things, starting with how rudely I treated you at Turkey Curry Buffet. I was there against my will, pressured for weeks in advance by my mother into meeting you… and wearing a horrid jumper that, honestly, I hoped would turn you off. I never meant for you to overhear me taking out my frustrations with my mother, though, and I'm sorry I never got to apologise to you for that. I never despised you—and I remembered your paddling pool antics quite well."

The smile broadened. "Well. The jumper worked as intended, which, really… too bad." For a moment her tone and her words were reminiscent of the previous night.

"And then last night, with you under the influence of so much wine, after your argument with Daniel—"

She looked suddenly traumatised. "You were there for that? How do you know Daniel?"

He felt like he might have just opened a can of worms; his past with the man who'd ruined his marriage was not something he wanted to get into at the present. "I was having dinner there. I couldn't help but overhear. As for how I know him, well, we have history together. Unpleasant history."

"That doesn't surprise me," she said, her smile momentarily turning into a sneer.

"Anyway. What I'm trying to say is… I'm really sorry about last night." Her smile suddenly vanished, and he hastened to add, "I mean… I don't mean sorry that we slept together. Sorry that we maybe could have come to this under better circumstances."

She laid her head back down on the pillow, kept her eyes on him (they really were quite an extraordinary blue), and he watched her smile a little bashfully in return. "Yeah."

He rested his own head back down, his eyes still engaged with her own, and felt a smile of his own cross his features. There was definitely something here, something worth pursuing, something he should have trusted his mother with, after all; and if his mother ever asked him how it was they reconnected, he would lie and tell her they met at a mutual friend's party, because the truth would be too mortifying to bear.

He moved his hand across her skin, drawing the sheet over her. "This might sound a little strange, all things considered," he began quietly, "but would you like to go out to dinner with me sometime?"

She didn't reply right away, merely continued regarding him. "Make it breakfast and you're on."

Of its own accord his hand raised and smoothed her hair down. "Okay."

"Or… you know. Lunch," she said, bringing her lips up to his.

_The end._


End file.
